


Only Human

by Amatara



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Caring Coop, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Albert, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Control, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Recovery, Snarky but supportive Diane, Whump, vomit warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 01:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11430252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amatara/pseuds/Amatara
Summary: When Albert gets slipped a roofie while working a case, Coop turns to a mutual friend for help. How readily Albert accepts that help is a different question…





	Only Human

**Author's Note:**

> A very indulgent bit of h/c, posted without shame because sometimes self-care is writing whump on the couch.

 *

“ _Albert!_ ”

The fact it’s his own name being called takes several seconds to sink in, and when it does, Albert is clutching the steering wheel, vaguely aware that he doesn’t even know if this was the first time Cooper tried to get his attention. From the look on his face, it probably wasn’t, so why the hell didn’t Albert hear him before?

Albert straightens in his seat, redoubling his grip on the wheel. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Long night. What were you saying?”

Cooper’s face is paler than usual, his lips full and red and ever so slightly parted… and the realization of his brain going to _that_ place, _now_ , is Albert’s second clue in a row that something is wrong. “Albert… Do you realize you just ran a red light?”

“Do I…” Albert scowls. “No. I did?”

“There was no one at the crossing, but…” He can hear the alarm in Cooper’s voice. “You’re an impeccable driver, Albert. I’ve never known you to nod off at the wheel, and I don’t mean to imply I have less than complete faith in your ability to handle a car, but this could have ended very badly if…” Long beat. “Albert, are you listening?”

“Yeah, I… Yeah,” he says, but the truth is, with Coop’s agitated chatter, he’s having trouble keeping his eyes on the road. Everything feels oddly hazy, less like regular tiredness and more like being drunk, even though he was careful with his consumption - they were on a stakeout, after all, nightclub or not. Sure, it’s four in the morning and his stamina isn’t what it used to be, but that doesn’t explain being so groggy it would have made him oblivious to a red light. His alcohol tolerance must _really_ be getting low.

Cooper clears his throat. “Albert? What’s going on?”

In lieu of an answer, Albert pulls the car over, squinting through the windshield into the night. “You drive, Coop.” He winces, then shuts down the engine. “Thought I was sober enough, but I guess I was wrong.”

Cooper blinks once, processing the information. If he’s disappointed by Albert’s admission, he doesn’t let it reach his face. “Okay,” he says simply, and opens the passenger door. After a second or two, Albert copies the gesture and swings his legs onto the pavement, only to overbalance the moment he gets out of the car. Cooper is already there, darting in to grab him, and Albert spends a frantic couple of heartbeats clinging gracelessly to Cooper’s arm.

“Screw it.” It comes out a rasp. Sweat is breaking out across his neck and forehead, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut when his vision blurs.

Cooper is a rock, unwavering and steady, and it’s a good thing he’s there or Albert might be kissing the pavement right now. “Albert…” Coop says, his voice measured but gentle. “How many drinks did you have?”

“One.” Albert grimaces. “And only because that guy offered it to me, so I couldn’t very well refuse without blowing our cover.”

Thoughtful silence. Then: “Should one drink be affecting you like this?”

“No. It shouldn’t.” Albert risks opening his eyes. Some of the lightness in his head is fading, but his vision's still distorted and there’s an strange, salty taste at the back of his throat. “Fuck,” he mutters. “That drink…”

“Spiked.” Cooper looks grim. “Most likely.”

Albert grits his teeth. “Told you pretty boys don’t buy me drinks for no reason.” He lets himself sag against the side of the car. “Must’ve given myself away somehow. And then someone decided to make a point, hand me a little goodbye present before we left, and I walked right into it.” Because he's a moron, apparently. “ _Fuck_.”

Cooper shifts his grip on Albert’s arm. “We need to get you -”

“Home,” Albert says, pushing away from the car. “Just… take the wheel and drive.”

“Albert, your home is on the other side of Philadelphia. How long until whatever was in that drink knocks you out? Because it’s going to, isn’t it?” Cooper’s tone is far more reasonable than it has any right to be.

“Probably.” No use lying to Coop, or to himself. “Depends on what they used, and on the dosage. Could be minutes, could be half an hour.”

“Your apartment is half an hour’s drive away. So is mine.” Cooper’s eyes narrow as they search Albert’s face. “Wait… I know who lives closer. I know who can help us.” He’s already steering Albert towards the passenger side, radiating the kind of frantic determination Albert knows is pointless to try to tone down. “Buckle up, Albert. We’re going for a ride.”

The last thing Albert remembers is wondering, with a kind of awed detachment, if this is the first time Coop’s broken a speed limit in his life. He suspects so from the man’s white-knuckled grip on the wheel, and there is something deeply moving about Dale Cooper, of all people, breaking a rule for Albert’s sake. Then the rhythmic noise of tires on the asphalt mixes in with whatever drug is leeching into his veins, and by the time a few more minutes have passed, Albert’s eyes are already drifting shut.

When he opens them again, it’s to the sight of a bob of blond hair and a bejeweled hand tapping his face.

“He’s awake.” That’s Cooper’s voice, floating in through the open passenger door.

The hand retreats a few inches. “Hm.” It sounds unconvinced, and the hand pats his cheek again, firmly. “Albert? Nap time’s over, baby, rise and shine.”

“Diane? How…” Albert starts to get up, but his legs feel like jelly and he ends up flopping back into his seat. Did he pass out? Or fall asleep? He’s guessing the latter, or he’d feel worse than he does. A glance at his watch tells him the drive took around ten minutes, which would explain why his coordination sucks but he’s still coherent, more or less. “Help me up,” he mutters. He tugs feebly at Diane’s sleeve, grateful when she doesn’t treat him to a snapback but hooks an arm through his when he scrambles out. Cooper takes his other arm, practically holding Albert up as he tries to lock his legs into position. Screw it. So much for being able to walk on his own.

He’s been to Diane’s place before, back when she turned forty and decided the proper way to celebrate was invite all her colleagues and try to get them drunk. The interior looks straight out of a magazine: all sleek lines and luxurious textures, and as he’s led to the living room, barely managing to stay upright, Albert feels almost more out of place here than he did back at that grimy bar. As long as they don't try to drape his drugged, sorry ass across Diane’s vintage designer couch.

“So,” she addresses Coop. “Let me get this straight. You brought him here because I’m supposed to know about recreational drugs, or…?”

Cooper’s silence lasts a fraction of a second too long. “We're here because you live closest,” he replies, with quiet dignity, but Albert notices he doesn’t contradict her either. “And because I trust you, and I believe Albert does as well.”

“Hey. I‘m right here,” Albert grumbles, and is rewarded by Diane’s brittle grin.

“Yes, you are. Couldn’t possibly have missed it.” But there’s real nervousness underlying her words, as much as she’s trying to mask it. Albert knows, because he’s resolved to play the same game; panic won’t get them anywhere. “Right,” she says, pulling herself up to her full height. “Dale, help Albert lie down. I need to go take care of a thing or two.” And she’s gone, leaving him parked in Cooper’s arms.

“Coop,” he says, before they can make it to the couch. Cooper is trying to take his weight as inconspicuously as possible, and the jiggling shuffle that's the result of his efforts is as clumsy as it is uncomfortable. By now Albert is feeling distinctly nauseated, in a way that suggests things might start to go downhill a hell of a lot faster than he’d prefer. “Bathroom first,” he mutters. “Lie down after.”

Cooper’s eyes are wide and earnest, the concern in them too pointed for Albert not to be tempted to avert his head. “All right,” he says, rearranging Albert’s arm around his shoulder. “Will you manage? I can carry…”

“Over my dead body.” He isn’t about to let Dale goddamn Cooper sling him across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Not as long as he’s able to walk - or crawl. But their progress towards Diane’s bathroom is slow and precarious, and by the time they make it, Albert has to admit crawling might have been more dignified. Reluctantly, he allows Cooper to deposit him on the toilet seat; not that he’s got a choice but to allow it. He’s so dizzy he can’t see straight, and he feels queasy and shaky and full, even though his stomach’s got barely anything in it. “Can I, ah… Some water?” And some privacy, but hopefully even a man as occasionally literal-minded as Coop will be able to grasp that implication.

The hand on his shoulder is slowly withdrawn. “Are you sure you’ll be…”

“Yeah,” Albert mutters, and then again, “yeah,” because, as much as part of him wants to, he can’t bring himself to say _Please._ Not yet.

“All right,” Cooper says, looking like he’s questioning the sanity behind the decision. But despite Albert’s refusal to beg, some of the sentiment must’ve made it through into his tone. “I’ll be right back. If you need me, call.”

Albert nods and waits for Cooper to disappear around the corner, then, with all the elegance of a wet paper bag, lets himself slither onto the floor. His coordination being what it is, it takes him a while to fold himself around the toilet in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s at risk of falling over. At this point he’s not even sure why he feels so sick: the drug, or his own panic setting in now that his audience is gone.

His stomach roils and he gags weakly, trying to resist the temptation to fight it. Better to just get it over with. But nothing comes up, just a couple of pitiful dry heaves that leave him wrung out but bring no relief. He gives it a little longer, then flushes and crawls over to sit against the bathtub, eyeing the half-open door. There’s a lock and a key and, just for a moment, he contemplates using them… but no. That would be beyond idiocy. He wouldn’t be the first poor bastard to get roofied who ends up choking on his own vomit or bashing in his skull while passing out. He can minimize the risk but not eliminate it entirely, and, as much as he wants to keep her and Coop out of the equation, he has no intention of repaying Diane's hospitality by ending up as a corpse on her bathroom floor. 

“Albert?” The rapid tapping of heels warns him his respite is over, along with his last chance at keeping out unwanted pairs of eyes. The silhouette that appears in the doorway is poised, guarded, and undeniably pissed off. “What the _fuck_ are you doing here? Did you come in here alone? Where’s Dale?”

“Kitchen, I think. And he knows I’m here ‘cause I asked him to bring me.” Albert pushes himself up against the tub, trying to cling to what's left of his dignity. “Felt sick. Better safe than sorry.” He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand, then lets it sag into his lap again. Mercifully, despite his other symptoms, he still doesn’t feel like his mind is about to go; a fact he’s well aware could change at any moment. “This won't be a picnic, Diane. No need for either of you to stick around and watch.”

“So your plan was to lock yourself in my bathroom for however long it takes to ride this out, and for Dale and me to be okay with that? No fucking way.”

Albert lifts his head, managing a glare. “I didn’t lock myself in.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t consider it?” Diane says, and then, probably reading the truth in his expression, gives a soft, triumphant _hah_. “All right. Let’s talk symptoms. How bad? Dizziness? Nausea? Muscle tremors?”

He swallows. “Yes.”

“Hallucinations?”

“Not yet. But I feel…” He cuts himself off with a grimace. The humiliation is almost too much, even if it helps that it’s Diane and not Coop asking the questions.

“You feel…?” Diane presses, ungluing her back from the doorpost in a movement that’s clearly meant to look casual but isn’t. The woman is wary as a cat, claws and all. “Albert. Say what you were going to say. I can’t be prepared if I don’t know.”

Albert nods, conceding the point. “I feel…” he tries again. But he can’t do it. Can’t say how he feels like ants are crawling across his skin, making him want to rip it off inch by inch, or how his insides are twisting up, half in reaction to whatever chemical is seeping into his veins, half in fear of the state it’ll leave him in when it hits him for real. He hasn’t gotten drunk or high since his college days, and even then, the loss of self-control was always the part he loathed. Better to do one’s suffering in solitude. “Ever had a bad trip?” he mutters, trying a different tack. “Only happened to me once, but I’ll never forget how _wrong_ it felt - like nothing aligned properly anymore. Like there were monsters around every corner, and every second brought me closer to turning into one of them. This isn’t like that yet, but… close enough.”

Diane raises an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t figure you for a man who’s done drugs. Booze, sure, but not… Huh.”

Albert shrugs. “Med school. At one point, nearly all of us were doing it. I got lucky. My folks found out, managed to talk some sense into me.”

“Well. Good for you.” She gives him a measuring look. “And congratulations. Looks like you’re about to relive the experience. I guess it helps that you know what to expect.” Long beat. “You said you feel sick?”

“Yeah.” His gut churns in punctuation, and Albert breathes out shakily through his mouth.

“Do you need…?”

He folds a protective arm around his stomach. “Nah. Tried, but couldn’t.” Not that it matters; whatever drug they gave him must have made it into his bloodstream by now. His brain feels like it’s lagging ten miles behind, the slow fog that started creeping up on him during the car ride refusing all his efforts to fight it, and he can barely squint past it to meet Diane’s eyes.

When she crouches next to him, it’s with an expression halfway between frustration and worry. Apparently whatever she saw in _his_ eyes was no damn good, because the set of her mouth is even more stubborn than before. “I understand your need for privacy, Albert. Believe me, I do.” Somehow she makes it come out as genuine sympathy, not a pity fest. “But you’re not being left alone, and that’s final.”

Albert raises his head. “Diane, please.” He’s begging now, but he doesn’t care. “Coop shouldn't have to…”

“Dale Cooper is a grown man, who volunteered to stay here, and who’s seen as much man-made misery in his life as you have. If you think his fragile heart can’t bear this -”

“What if it’s mine that can’t bear it?” he rasps, then averts his face. God, he needs to lie down; he can barely sit up straight, and he has no intention of toppling over into Diane’s lap.

“Albert…” Her hand is on his now, fingers closing around his knuckles. “I know. I know you don’t want anyone to see you like that, least of all Dale. But honestly, I don’t think it would lower his opinion of you if you walked in dressed as a peacock complete with feathers up your ass. Your dignity will survive. So will his friendship. Not to mention…” She trails off at the sound of footsteps from the hallway; not five seconds later, a shock of black hair pops into view.

“Albert? Your water…”

“There you are,” Diane cuts in before Coop can finish. The steely tone is unexpected, given that she’s still holding Albert’s hand like he’s a kid who just skinned his knee, but for once he keeps his mouth shut. Never question Diane when she’s on your side. “I don’t know how Agent Suck-It-Up here convinced you to let him have his private playtime, but I say he’s grounded for tonight.”

Cooper looks contrite enough that Albert can’t help but feel guilty. It’s not that he tricked Cooper into leaving him alone; he just knew that Cooper, assuming Albert was acting responsibly, would see no reason not to do as he was asked. Responsible, his ass. Leave it to Diane to see right through him. “I understand,” Cooper says, and then, sheepish: “This is for you.”

“Thanks.” Albert nods faintly. His throat is drier than the Nevada desert, but when he tries to fold his hands around the glass, he almost spills the whole thing down his shirt. It’s Diane who saves him, with a catch that’d make Babe Ruth proud, and the next thing he knows, Cooper has shimmied in beside him and is helping him lift the glass to his mouth. Albert drinks carefully, hearing Coop make encouraging noises at each sip, then leans back and knows, with a sudden burst of clarity, that he couldn’t have been more wrong before. He doesn’t want to go through this alone.

“Time to move,” Diane says, with a hooded glance at Cooper that still manages to convey the urgency behind it. She pats Albert’s arm and unfurls from her crouch.

“Living room?” Cooper asks.

“Bedroom.” Brief, lopsided smile. “Don’t worry, Albert, I put on fresh sheets for you. I hope you like lavender.”

“Color or smell?” Albert says, then blinks when Cooper shakes his head with vehemence. “What?”

“Eight months ago. The Dawson case. We had to share a motel room. Don’t tell me you forgot.” Cooper maneuvers himself onto his knees, pulling Albert up along with him. Albert is trying not to cling, he is, but there’s a red fog hovering at the edge of his vision and he can’t get his muscles to cooperate. “There was a strange smell in the bathroom, so I bought air freshener from a store. I thought you would choke after I sprayed it. You made me vow never to use it again.”

“You didn’t just _spray_ that crap,” Albert protests, trying not to think about how Cooper is carrying all his weight now, both arms circling his waist as he’s hauling him up. The story is a distraction and they both know it. “Triggered a chemical spill is more like it. I felt like my lungs were dissolving. I thought...” He groans and presses his forehead against Cooper’s shoulder, too dizzy to go on.  

“It’s all right,” Cooper murmurs. “Grab hold of my shoulders.” There’s brief moment of disorientation as Cooper bends over, one arm snaking behind Albert’s knee, and suddenly he’s in Cooper’s arms, holding on for dear life but feeling oddly like he’s floating. Then Cooper moves, and acid floods Albert’s throat as he curls up and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember how breathing works.

“I meant the color,” Diane says dryly, from somewhere behind them, and then, “Try not to throw up on him, Albert.” But the look she’s giving Coop is bare of humor, thin-lipped and brittle and tense.

“That’s all right,” Cooper says, sounding a hundred and twenty percent sincere, and Albert gasps out a laugh in spite of it all. Did Cooper just express an utter lack of concern about being thrown up on by a fellow Agent? Does the boy have any sense of self-preservation left?

“No promises,” Albert mumbles, then lets his head loll back while the walls spin around him, slowly but inescapably fading to black.

He comes to with his cheek mashed against a pillow and a swath of lilacs scattered across his vision, undulating gently as he tries to clear his head. He’s in bed - Diane’s bed? - splayed on top of those flower-strewn sheets, still wearing his pants but nothing else. And he’s shaking like he’s running a fever, everything slow and cottony and distant except for the intense nausea squeezing his gut.

“Albert?” Ah. There’s Coop, turning that trademark doe-eyed gaze on him from where he’s hovering at the edge of the bed. “You were out for a moment, so I took the liberty to remove your shoes and shirt. If you want, I can help with…”

“No.” Make that _hell no. “_ No one's touching my fucking pants until I’m passed out for real.”

A hint of a smile touches Cooper’s lips. “That’s what Diane told me you’d say.”

“Yeah, well…” Albert groans, breathing hard into the pillow. “You might not have to wait for long.”

Cooper’s mouth twitches. “Bad?”

“Mmm.” Albert nods jerkily. “Last warning, Coop. No hard feelings if you wanna opt out.”

“Opt…?” Cooper trails off into silence. “No. Out of the question. I was with you when this happened. That makes it my responsibility too. And even if it wasn’t…” A hand makes gentle contact with his shoulder. “I wouldn’t think of leaving, Albert. I thought that would have been obvious.”

Albert swallows. “It’ll be ugly.” The protest sounds feeble, but he owes it to Cooper to try one more time.

Cooper frowns, looking undaunted. “Will it? You could never be ugly to me, Albert, I’m certain of that.”

“You just watch me,” Albert chokes, and this time when he buries his face into the pillow, it’s to hide the tears that are threatening to spill. Bad idea. The movement sends vertigo crashing across his vision, the disorientation too intense to even try to struggle when Cooper rolls him back onto his side. His eyes are open but everything is blurred as Cooper pulls him up, one arm around him, and Albert can’t understand why Coop’s murmuring nonsense like _it’s all right_ until it hits him that he’s gagging. Someone - Diane? - calls his name, and from somewhere there’s a basin held out, and maybe it’s the sight of it or something else but the next thing he knows he’s being wretchedly, violently ill for what feels like several minutes, his stomach wringing itself inside out until he’s empty and shaking and his throat is raw with the taste of bile.

“Shh.” Cooper rubs his back until he's done; slow, rhythmic circles with the flat of his palm. “There… Give it a moment. Ready to lie back down?”

Albert gulps, nods, can’t bring out a word. He’s heard tales about people getting roofied, of course, and he can list all the symptoms off the top of his head, but somehow he still wasn’t braced for this - not the vehemence of his own body’s reaction, nor Dale Cooper’s shockingly on-point bedside manner, which may be the biggest surprise of them all.

“Here.” Diane, perched on a chair by the bed, holds out a squeeze bottle of water and a cup. “Suck, then spit.” The dark humor in her tone tells him the smutty double-entendre means exactly what he thinks it does.

Albert takes a sip and closes his eyes again, doesn’t fight when Cooper leans him back into the pillow. “It’s considered good manners,” he mumbles, “to swallow.” But he spits into the cup anyway, then curls in on himself. “ _God…"_

“Pulse is thready,” he hears Cooper say, with a grim kind of determination, and a moist washcloth is dragged across his face. “Try to breathe, Albert. Slow, deep breaths.” The cloth moves towards his forehead and stays there, Cooper’s fingers lightly grazing his skin.

“ _You_ try to fucking breathe,” Albert grates, and is rewarded by an appreciative chuckle from Diane - as clear a sign as any that, however bleak things feel, at least he’s among friends and neither of them are squeamish.

“Language, Albert,” she scolds, then leans in and offers him the bottle again. He drinks clumsily, aware she’s just trying her best to distract him and equally aware that, for all his efforts, he’s got precious few seconds of consciousness left.

“Huh. Look who’s calling the kettle black.” His voice sounds slurred even to himself. “Diane…” Long silence, in which he can hear his heartbeat rushing in his ears, rapid and distorted. “Thanks. Coop, do me a favor. Don’t…” Long, shivery sigh. “... report this.”

“My lips are sealed, Albert.” Cooper’s hand drifts down from Albert’s face, settles at the center of his chest. “It’s all right. Close your eyes if you want to. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s what ’m... ‘fraid of,” Albert sighs, trying to muster a final act of defiance. Not that he knows for whose benefit. The only sensation he’s still vaguely aware of is the press of Cooper’s palm against his heart, and in those last couple of seconds before he blacks out, being afraid is the farthest thing from his mind. And if, the next day, waking up with a killer hangover and missing the last twelve hours of his life, there’s an odd, dreamy not-quite-memory of being cradled in Cooper’s arms, he doesn’t have the courage to ask about it. Not because he’s scared it might have been real, but because he couldn’t bear to find out that it wasn’t.

*


End file.
